


this is the story of a girl

by Arrowsbane



Series: these aren't scars, these are stories [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: all those hours you spend telling yourself that it's your fault, domestic abuse, in real life there is no hero, it's not easy in real life, sometimes you have to rescue yourself, that it's not a big deal, there is no simple way out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8432644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrowsbane/pseuds/Arrowsbane
Summary: a short story on domestic abuse"I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become." – C.G. Jung





	

_"I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become." – C.G. Jung_

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a little white vase sitting in a workshop, waiting for its maker to paint it with all the bright colors of life.

Once upon a time, there was a little vase who was smashed into a thousand pieces…

Once upon a time, there was a girl…

…

You’re eight years old, and Mom brings home her new boyfriend. He smiles and say how nice it is to finally meet you, you’re all that Mom ever talks about. It’s summer, and the flowers are in bloom, but there is ice in your stomach and a chill running down your spine. You should say something, but you just want Mom to be happy, so you smile and say it’s nice to meet him too.

It’s the first real lie you ever tell.

…

You’re nine years old, and he’s practically moved in. He’s there in the mornings when you try to get out of eating breakfast, (because who actually likes toast?), and he’s there when you get home from school. Forget watching afternoon cartoons while you do your homework, you’re upstairs in your room as quickly as possible and shutting the door behind you.

You lose yourself in math calculations, and tales of far-away places until it’s time for tea.

…

You’re ten years old, and you’re struggling at school. You don’t understand the work, or rather, you understand the hard stuff, but not the basics.

(One day you’ll understand that your brain just works differently from other people, but right now all you want is to pass your science class.)

Your grades are slipping, and Mom is too busy to help you; it’s not her fault. He doesn’t understand what the big deal is, he tells you that you’re stupid and says that you’re letting Mom down.

Since when was it any of his business, he’s not your father.

…

You’re eleven-years-old, enrolled in a new school… you’re so far from home, living in a dormitory with three other girls, but you don’t tell them your secrets and they don’t tell you theirs.

Some days are good days, when He smiles and you laugh, and you actually get along. But he is selfish, and so are you – you both want all of Mom’s time. It’s only natural that there would be dissent between the two of you. It doesn’t make his behavior right though. It doesn’t make it okay for you to be scared. You drive yourself half-mad trying to smile and pretend that everything is okay.

Soon you start to struggle to tell the difference between your dreams and your waking moments – which is real, which isn’t? There are voices in your head, in the hallways, in the shadows. Why won’t they stop? Half a sheet of painkillers gone before something clicks in your brain. You make them come back up, tears running down your cheeks as you hang over a toilet in the girl’s bathroom. Then you flush the rest so you can’t do it again, and wash your face to hide your tears. That night you curl up under your quilt and cry yourself to sleep.

A few days later, you phone home and beg until Mom says you can come home.

You don’t tell her about that night. You don’t tell anybody.

…

You’re twelve years old, and you’re beyond relieved that the dreams have stopped. You know what’s real now. You’re still afraid to speak too loudly in your own home, but you’re stubborn and so you do it anyway. Puberty hits, that horrid twisting pain in your abdomen and you don’t understand at first. It makes you sluggish, makes you slow, and when you aren’t fast enough for His liking in the morning, he hits you. Hard. This is the first time he’s left a mark that somebody else can see. It stings, yes, but it fades and you’re still there. You consider that a victory.

Your best friend betrays you, and it hurts. You’re too young to know that girl isn’t like the women you will eventually trust to follow you to the end of the earth. Friends come and go at that age. You find a new best friend. She’s wild, untamed, and far too aware for her own good. She knows how He treats you is wrong. She tells you this, and you laugh. _It’s not so bad,_ you say. You both know that’s a lie.

Eventually you snap. One day He hits you hard enough to send you crashing to the floor. The _stone_ floor. Over a piece of toast. Who does that? You’re not even five feet tall. Looking back, you’re furious. It’s pathetic. It’s cowardly. It’s not right. But in that moment, you’re too busy trying to convince yourself that you’re not afraid. That’s a lie. He’s a lot stronger than you are. _I don’t have to put up with this,_ you tell him stubbornly, tilting up your chin in defiance, _I have other people I can live with._ He laughs in your face and dares you to leave. He tells you that you aren’t wanted. It’s cruel.

Your best friend phones Child Services. It’s the first fight you ever have, you’re furious. She’s trying to help, but all you can think of is that you don’t want to be taken away from Mom.

You’re not sure how much longer you can take this, especially now that his ring sits on Mom’s finger. It’s strange how a band of gold looks rather like a restraint. But then you know he’s got the wool pulled over her eyes good and proper. You can’t bear to break her heart, so you leave instead.

…

You’re thirteen years old, and yet another story of abuse is on the television.

[You’ve moved in with Dad, wave Mom goodbye with a smile. It’s perfectly normal for you to want to live with your Dad after so many years with her, that’s what you tell people. But inside you’re just so relieved to be away from Him.]

Your friends frown, and they list a dozen ways that the person could get out of there. You smile (by now you’re so used to putting on a mask that the line is beginning to blur) agree with them and spend half an hour coming up with two more ideas. It’s just one of those lifetime movies, just another story.

You don’t tell your friends to stop. You don’t tell them that real life isn’t that simple.

You’re too busy trying to tell yourself to calm down, that you’re not a statistic, you’re not like the people in the film. So you change the channel and put on a Disney movie instead. Life is so much easier when you can pretend that the good guys always win.

…

You’re fourteen, and you see Mom for winter vacation. He’s there too, but you make the best of it, pretend everything is okay. You’re good at pretending now. Too good.

You almost make it through the whole week without a fuss. Almost. You still wind up in a one-sided shouting match over something ridiculous. You don’t even really remember what it was about.

And he still manages to get a few good barbs in before they leave. Cold words that cut into your skin like rusted wire, leaving a raging infection in their wake.

He doesn’t have to hit you to hurt you. You know that now, and what’s worse is that he knows it too.

…

You’re fifteen and introducing your boyfriend for the first time.

Inside your head you’re pleading to a higher power, praying that he won’t notice the tense line of your shoulders, the tautness of the tendons in your neck, the frozen crinkle of your eyes. You don’t want him to know, don’t want _anyone_ to know.

For the first time, you finish the day without a fight. You’re still in shock the next morning, and you spend the next week waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never does, and you don’t sleep for a week.

When did a peaceful vacation become your idea of the twilight zone?

What does that say about your life?

Far more than it ever should. This is wrong and you know it.

…

Fear turns to anger not long after you turn sixteen.

You’re past denial and pleading with yourself. You’re past being a scared little child. Who the hell is He to dare command you. Who is He to bring you pain. Who is He to cause you sorrow.

You are a Queen in your own right, and you bow to no man.

But you do bend in order to keep the peace.  And that burns.

You can play the waiting game though; you can be patient. This is the kind of anger that will keep and keep. Patience is a virtue, and you’ve been playing at this for a very long time now.

…

You’re seventeen when He trips up.

Oh gods, does he screw up.

And then the truth comes tumbling down.

Freedom. It tastes so sweet. But it’s bitter too.

Mom knows the truth now, and she won’t stop apologizing.

She’s hurting because you were hurt, and that just makes it worse. You can’t bear to see her cry, and so you bite back the bitter retort. You swallow the scream building in your throat. Suddenly you sort-of hate her too. She’s supposed to know you better than anybody else in the world, so how in the nine realms did she miss this? It’s not like you’re the world’s best actress.

Rationally, you know that people are good at seeing what they want to see, and you tell yourself it isn’t her fault. _It really isn’t._ But you’re damaged now. Damaged and twisted, and broken and bent. Like a warped wire coil, you might never regain your original shape.

 _Breathe,_ you tell yourself. _In, and out. In, and out. Clear your mind._

You smile at Mom, and yet again, you lie.

Will this ever end?

…

You’re eighteen, and your hackles go up whenever somebody tells you to do something. It’s not that they want help that bothers you, it’s the command. It’s the expectation that you’ll do what they want, without even considering you might be busy. It’s the echo. It’s the overlay of His voice.

Eighteen years old in body, but part of your mind is still nine years old and smiling for somebody else.

He’s got no say in your life, but his shadow is long.

You’re still angry, raging, a dangerous fire is simmering inside you. Occasionally you lament the lack of access to his morning coffee, but you tamp down on the mental image of him choking on aconite or something else nasty and worthy of a jail sentence.

 _He’s not worth it,_ you tell yourself. _Forget. Let it go._

How did that line from Labyrinth go? _You have no power over me._

…

You’re nineteen when you realize forgiveness has nothing to do with the person being forgiven. It’s about the person doing the forgiving accepting what happened, and letting go. About making the choice to lay the past to rest and move on.

But a part of you is too stubborn to let go. You’re still angry with him.

What’s worse is how angry you are with yourself.

The rage turns inwards, and the anxiety attacks begin again.

…

There is no real logic when you’re recovering.

You spin through cycles too quickly to learn where you stand. _Up and down, up and down._ Just when you think you’ll be okay, another wave tumbles down over your head and the tide yanks your feet out from beneath you.

Just twenty years old now. Twenty years old, and your peers have got it all figured out. They’re at university, bettering themselves, and you… You’re just trying to keep your head above the water.

It’s exhausting, and you’re so tired.

But you keep on paddling, keep your head above water.

Even if you can’t figure everything out, you can at least make sure you don’t drown.

…

Twenty-one years old, and you’re finally moving on.

Stable work-week, class in the evenings, you write to clear your mind. Even better – people like what you write. It’s a talent. He doesn’t even cross your mind these days. It’s not worth the effort. Mentions of His name come up in casual conversation, and they’re just that: casual.

You’re learning to stand in the sun, and the weight on your shoulders feels lighter every day.

An entire life ahead of you, why should you dwell on the past.

_The past defines us, but it doesn’t control us._

There is no shame in what happened. You know that now.

You’ve stopped letting society tell you how to feel.

It’s okay to hurt. It’s okay to be afraid. It’s okay to _let go._

…

You are twenty-two years old now, a woman grown.

You take the bus to work, because you like having that time to think. You drink hot chocolate and fold warm laundry on rainy days, when water streams down the window. You smile when you see people in the street and you walk with a spring in your step.

You still babble when your nervous, but you’ve gotten good at pretending it’s just you being friendly. You still flinch when somebody shouts your name through the house. You still feel threatened by men who are taller than you.

These things may never change.

…

You’ve had six years of freedom, but these things take decades to fix.

…

Once upon a time there was a shattered vase lying in pieces upon the floor.

Until somebody picked up the pieces.

Somebody put them back together. Somebody sanded down the glue, and somebody painted it with beautiful colors. Somebody set it on the windowsill, and somebody filled it with flowers.

When people walk past that window, they remark on what a wonderful piece of art it is. The cracks are invisible in the daylight; the scars are hidden from view. In the dark of the night, when it hits just the right angle, the soft moonbeams light up the marks that nobody sees.

They are hidden, but they are still there. They will _always_ be there.

…

Once upon a time, there was a girl… and you will always wonder if you’ve walked past her on the street.


End file.
